


Dance with the Devil | In the summer sunlight

by Genesis_of_Eschaton



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, Dancing Plagues, Friendship, Full warnings for each chapter in Notes, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25200376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Genesis_of_Eschaton/pseuds/Genesis_of_Eschaton
Summary: Geralt rides into Cintra, following the Path, and to a lesser extent, rumours that a certain bard has been playing his way through the country. But when he reaches the capital, grim news awaits him. Jaskier is dead, by the hand of something too powerful to be called a Noonwraith. Grieving for his friend, who will never walk beside him again, Geralt braces for the countless lonely years ahead of him. Weeks later, he hears the familiar sound of a lute being strummed and a voice lifted in song, and it seems that Jaskier has not left him after all.But this song does not age like wine but instead sours into vinegar. Rumours blow north with the storms of a ‘dancing plague’, a mania that forces people to dance until they drop dead of exhaustion. No healer, mage, or scholar can find a cure, but perhaps it can be found in the heart of a Witcher enthralled by its madness…
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> [Click here for the official playlist for this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLBkiGwQcSMva2rSSj9KH0zu18KsIddYA0) There is one song for every chapter of this work, plus an intro song.
> 
> This fic is set in a weird vague AU where Jaskier has become quite a famous bard (with Geralt’s help of course), sometime after Geralt’s reunion with Ciri in the woods but before the dragon hunt. Emperor Emhyr is less of a Tyrannical Dickhead and conquers the North by means of a few battles (including Sodden Hill) and LOTS of politics. Thus, the sack of Cintra etc. doesn’t occur and Calanthe is still queen of Cintra. He also doesn’t marry False Ciri and instead abdicates the empire to Movran Vorhis. Please ignore any time-related plotholes, unless I’ve somehow missed a truly massive one, in which case please point it out.
> 
> This fic would not be as great as it could be without you, so thank you so much to my beta Slipperyseamen.
> 
>  **Warnings for this chapter:** Major character death (mentioned)

For the last month, Geralt’s path has slowly meandered towards Cintra. For the most part, it’s a conscious decision; Geralt has found people tend to be a little looser with their purses in this kingdom, and he’s almost always guaranteed a fair rate for contracts here. Another part of him, which he resolutely pushes to the back of his mind, has been keenly listening to the whispers that Jaskier has been playing towns across Cintra for the past months.

It’s a day after Midsummer, Geralt’s favourite time of the year. With the sun at its highest, the days are warm and slow, passing by in sprays of colourful wildflowers and fields of golden wheat. There’s a simple, unbridled joy in the sight of the bright garlands of flowers strung across doorways, the women and girls dancing in their finery, trailing bright ribbons from their wrists and hair, ankles adorned with tinkling bells, and the smells of the sweets sold by the street vendors that make him feel almost unburdened. It is almost as if, for a precious few days, the monsters that lurk in the dark exist only in tales, where nothing is needed to slay them except a lit candle by one’s bedside and a peek under the bed to make sure nothing lurks there. He’s hoping to spend a few days in the capital, resting in relative comfort in one of the cheaper inns in the lower quarter. Although, he can always ride on to one of the smaller villages surrounding Cintra, where the rates are lower, if need be.

Geralt’s mood drops as soon as he rides through the gates of Cintra, and an odd sense of foreboding starts to fill him. The streets are quiet, far too quiet for the day after Midsummer. Usually the summer festivities stretch for a week before and after the day, but looking around, he sees no signs of revelry. The few strings of flowers that adorn the buildings are thin and starting to wilt. Worse, all around him, people turn their gazes away, refusing to look at him. They duck into doorways, shops, even nearby alleyways to avoid coming within a horselength of him. He’d decided to forgo pulling up the hood of his travelling cloak, given that Jaskier had gentled his fearsome reputation in Cintra through his songs. Last time he had passed through the city, a few brave souls had even dared to call out a greeting to him. 

Despite this, none have dared attack him; it feels almost like the whole city is watching him, ready to close in like a pack of vultures with whatever weapons they can find. Even the usually aggressive gangs of street children, who, in a bid to increase their status among their peers, would make a competition of who can pelt him with the most pieces of garbage or stone, now simply stare at him with wide eyes.

It’s then that Geralt notices the peculiar dress of most of the womenfolk. They’re dressed in black from head to toe, the colour of those in mourning. He wonders if a noble has died, and the city expresses its grief. Even as he wonders, a trio of women hurry across the road. One of them trips on the cobblestones in her haste, falling to the ground. The other two quickly grab her by the arms and drag her away, casting furtive glances back at him all the while.

Not for the first time, Geralt curses the hatred of Witchers. He’s been taking a few more contracts than usual, because hunting is better in the warm summer sun than autumn’s chill, and no doubt rumours of monster sightings have come from both peasants catching a glimpse of a drowner surfacing in a lake and people spotting him drinking in their tavern.

He’s into the Lower Quarter now, where life seems a little more normal, though people still leap out of his way. He isn’t looking for a particular inn, just wandering until he finds one that suits his fancy. As he turns around another corner, he sees a sign depicting a hound, crudely drawn in red paint, advertising the  _ Red Dog _ . It’s as good a place as any, so he turns Roach to their adjoining stable. Surprisingly, the stableboy just looks at him expectantly when he leads Roach in, and he tosses the boy a copper and tells him to untack her and brush her down. He unstraps his pack from her saddle, and heads for the inn proper.

\---------

Inside the Red Dog, it reeks of fear. At first he tenses, ready to bolt, but when he inhales again, taking a moment to scan the room, he can trace the source to a man sitting huddled in the corner, staring blankly into a mug of ale. He can’t be older than thirty summers but the purple-black shadows under his eyes and the tremor in his hands as he grips his drink make him look aged and frail. The few other patrons barely glance at him before following the scared mans’ lead and gazing into their drinks like they hold the secret to life itself, turning their bodies away from him as he walks to the bar. There, a stout woman with greasy hair comes over to him, an odd look- pity? Jealousy? Flickering across her face, before she too turns her attention to the rag she’s holding in her hand. 

“How much for four nights and stabling for a horse?” He asks, reckoning that will cost about as much coin as he’s willing to spare for a bed in the capital. To his surprise, the woman says he can stay a week, baths included, for the price of a night, which is three silvers. Geralt’s immediately suspicious. No innkeeper worth their salt would give a room to a stranger for so cheap, unless the room was infested with rodents and rotted through with damp. That, or they had a problem. The sort of problem that requires a witcher to solve. It’s a damn good deal though, so he sighs and prepares himself for an evening lurking in stinking alleyways. “What monster do you want me to take care of?”

The innkeeper looks up at him briefly, before her eyes once again drift back to the cloth she’s ringing between her hands. “There’s no monster that needs slaying, master Witcher. Just a room for the price I told you.’

Geralt grits his teeth. He’s wasted too much time in his life coaxing stories out of reluctant people, and he’s quickly tiring of the woman’s game. 

“What’s the catch?” He bites out. “You’re offering me a room for a price only a fool would take. So either there's something wrong with the room, or you want me to do something for you to make up the cost of the room. Speak plainly now, and tell me what it is.”

The woman shakes her head, not even looking at him. “I….there’s nothing you need do, master Witcher, and I’ll give you a good room, one with two windows and a view over the marketplace. It’s just that you were his friend, see?”

He pauses, frustration replaced with puzzlement. He can only think of one friend she’d be referring to- “You mean Jaskier, the bard?”

The innkeeper stares at him then, all timidness forgotten. “You don’t know? I mean, you haven’t heard the news?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “Nay. I arrived in Cintra not an hour ago. What news is there?”

Her shoulders sag and she bows her head further, her tone sorrowful. “Jaskier’s dead, master Witcher. Died yesterday, killed by some monster at a village a day’s ride from here.” 

Geralt’s vision blurs at the edges, his hand gripping his coinpurse with white knuckles.  _ Jaskier. Dead. Killed by a monster. _ There’s a dull roaring in his ears, like a griffin screaming in the distance, and reality seems to be falling away from him in so many pieces at so few words. It doesn’t seem real that Jaskier could be gone. 

Somehow, in his mind, he’d imagined Jaskier immune to the ravages of time and death, never growing old, emerging from each scrape and fight with an ego more bruised than his body. But now, confronted with the fact that Jaskier- vivid, sun-bright,  _ human _ Jaskier- is dead, something cold and hard grows in his chest, twisting around the muscles of his throat. The roaring in his ears grows louder, and he recognizes the sound for what it is. 

It’s Destiny, laughing at him.

The world snaps back into focus, too bright and too loud, and he shakes his head, trying to shut it out. He wants to yell at the women, ask her what sort of trick she’s playing, but in his heart he knows she’s right. The signs are all there- the women in mourning black, the way the residents shied away from him. 

The woman seems to sense his unease, and turmoil. She points to the man who smells like fear, who’s sitting just as still as he was before. “If you want to know more, you can ask Niathir. He was there.”


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Graphic descriptions of violence and death, a character talks about original character who is pregnant when she commits suicide (non-graphic), mentions of cheating

Geralt walks over to Niathir’s table, sitting on the bench opposite him. His mug is still almost full, and Geralt wagers it has been for most of the day. The man isn’t drunk though - Geralt would have smelt it on him. He’s in shock, that much is clear. There’s a familiar, haunted look in his eyes that tells of hours with the horrors he witnessed playing endlessly through his brain, slowly going numb from the memories.

“Tell me what happened.” His voice rings oddly in his ears, as though it’s the first time his ears have heard the low rough tone of his voice. Niathir shakes his head, a silent  _ you don’t want to know _ , or perhaps  _ don’t make me recall what happened _ . Maybe a combination of the two. 

Quickly, he reaches out and grips the man’s jaw in his left hand, forcing Niathir to look at him, and traces the sign of  _ Axii _ in the air with the other hand. Niathir’s shoulders droop a little, loosening from their tense set, and his gaze loses some of its focus.

“I need to know, Niathir.  _ Tell me what happened to Jaskier. _ ” He prompts, and Niathir exhales quietly, meeting Geralt’s eyes. 

“I’ll start at the beginning. I’m a city guard, here in Cintra. Honestly, I went into it because my best friend, Byruz, signed up first, and it seemed as good a job as any. Now Byruz, he had a sister, Serein, who lived in his birthplace, a little village called Toraz. It’s about a day’s ride northwest from Cintra. 

As it was, Serein had her eye set on the village blacksmith, Gantor. Had, ever since she was about sixteen or so. She loved him with all her heart, and had been handfasted to him for a year. Melitele smiled upon her, and she was eight moons pregnant with his babe when she came back from the market to find him ploughing the cobbler’s daughter on their bed. That right then and there, that was what broke Serein’s heart. She thought Gantor truly loved her, you see. So she took her wedding dress, put in on, and ran out into the fields. Then she took a kitchen knife and s lashed her arms to ribbons. Serein bled out in the rye, and by the time anyone realised what was happening, she was too far gone to save. 

Now the village mourned Serein, and they buried her with all the proper rites due to her. But the next day at high sun, she came back as a terrible ghost, with grey skin shrunken over her bones, the funeral flower crown and wreath still around her head and neck. She wore her pale yellow wedding gown, even though it had been burned because it was soaked in her blood. Skin and muscle trailed like ribbons from her forearms, and black claws sprouted from her fingertips. Her belly was still grossly swollen with child, but that didn’t slow her none as she slaughtered every animal Toraz had grazing in the fields, along with a farmer, as well as a shepherd and his boy who were out tending their flock. Tore them all to pieces with her hands, she did. 

Well, the village didn’t take kindly to their own people being killed, as well as all their livestock. The next day, when Serein’s ghost appeared at midday, they gathered up whatever arms they had- pitchforks, axes, rusty swords. Together they marched to Gantor’s workshop and drove him out into the fields. The villagers thought that she would take her revenge and then lie quietly in her grave, you see. But she didn’t. She took her time strewing her husband across three fields, but she still remained there, prowling the field like a hungry wolf. So they took up arms again, and they drove the cobbler’s daughter into the fields as well. Serein killed her, but still her bloodlust wasn’t sated. She would roam the fields from midday to sundown, killing anyone in the fields. 

Of course, word quickly reached Cintra, and Byruz. There were no Witchers about Cintra, or at least none who wanted to take such a contract. So Byruz gathered a gang, myself included, and we went to Toraz to put his sister back to rest in the earth. But the bard, Jaskier, insisted on coming with us. He’d heard the story of Serein’s ghost as well, thought it would make a great song, of brave men putting a betrayed bride to rest on midsummer, and of the dangerous monsters that sprung from the cost of heartbreak and broken vows. But he said he needed to be there, to witness the quieting of Serein’s ghost, or else the song would be missing a vital part. Byruz, he was eager to go as fast as possible, so he told the bard that as long as he didn’t get in the way, or expect any of the party to protect him, and if he could keep up he could come. 

So the bard tailed us to Toraz, and we spent the night there. Next morning, we sharpened our weapons- all of us had steel except Byruz, who had a silver blade he’d bought and had blessed by a priest. We’d wait until midday, and then the rest of us- we were six in total- would charge the specter, keeping her occupied while Byruz snuck up behind her and put the blade in her heart. 

But it all went wrong. When the sun reached midday, she appeared, and we strode out into the field. She flew straight towards us, screeching, those awful tattered arms reaching out for our flesh. But then she just...stopped dead, a few feet in front of us. We were all stunned, unsure what to do. Then she flew over our heads, this awful stinking wind blowing in her wake. We spun around, saw the bard standing at the edge of the field with her coming towards him like a charging bull. I yelled at him to get back to the village, because he’d be safe from her there. But he didn’t move. Just stood there, with a little smile on his face, like he was struck dumb, or paralysed as she wrapped her hands around his neck and lifted him off the ground. 

He moved then, kicking his legs and clawing at her, flailing as she choked the life from him. I know, we should have charged her then, struck her down, but my legs felt weak as a newborn lamb’s, my guts had turned to water and I was sure I was gonna piss my britches. I’ve never known fear like it, and I don’t think I ever will again.” 

Despite the effect of  _ Axii _ , Niathir’s eyes were dark and haunted, and he took another swig of ale, like he was trying to drown the demons threatening to break the surface in his mind. 

“None of us were any better than me. Then the youngest of us, Disr, something broke in him. He was only twenty summers, had never been in a proper fight. He threw down his sword and went running for the village, yelling wildly all the way, piss staining his breeches. Then Handan and Vazri made a break for it, followed by Lorres, running back to the village where the ghost couldn’t get them. And I admit, I thought about the cowardice of running for safety while an innocent man died and a man who I called my brother stood to face a monster alone. But I couldn’t do it. My sword hand was shaking at the thought of fighting something that could tear apart almost an entire village’s herd of livestock with its hands in a single afternoon and lift a man in the air like he weighed no more than a feather. 

So I ran for the village, and behind me I heard running feet and knew Byruz had decided to cut his losses too. We made it back to the village, sure that at any moment Serein’s ghost would be behind us, ready to tear us to shreds. I turned around to look for the bard, and I saw that Serein was still holding him in the air by her grip around her neck. His face was purple from lack of air, his eyes bulging, but I knew he was still alive because his legs were still kicking weakly, and his lips were moving. Probably saying a prayer. She was taking her time strangling him, like she was enjoying it. And then- then, just as he was about to pass out, she dropped him. Let him catch his breath, but he was too weak to move. Just lay there, gasping like a landed fish, while she hovered over him.

Then she picked him up again, and repeated the process again and again. Strangled him til he couldn’t breathe, and then let go. Over and over. It was the most horrible thing I’ve seen in my life. I couldn’t look away. All of us were too scared to go and rescue him, so we just...watched. Praying that maybe, just maybe, he could hang on till sundown, when we could go out without fear and rescue him. The sun sank lower and lower in the sky, and just as the bottom of it was about to dip below the horizon, she put her hands around his neck for the final time. Squeezed until his body went still, and kept squeezing. 

She finally disappeared when the sun sank completely below the horizon, and me and Byruz went out to fetch his body. It was horrible. His head just lolled from his body, like a rag doll, because she’d applied so much pressure that everything inside of his neck had turned to paste. Bones and all. We decided to take him back to Cintra for burial. Somehow word reached the capital before we did, and when we arrived back Queen Calanthe was waiting at the gates for us. She took custody of the body, and not an hour later a royal decree was put out that because of his fame, and the stories he sung, he’d lie in state, with armed guards at the door, in the palace’s Hall of the Fallen for six nights, and be buried on the seventh. This is the first night of mourning.”

A sudden thought crosses Geralt’s mind. “What about his lute? His belongings? What happened to them?” 

Niathir shrugs. “I took his pack and lute back to Cintra, and gave it to Queen Calanthe. I don't know what happened to them after that.”


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** None

Geralt’s heard enough. He stays at the table long enough to ask for directions to Toraz, then stumbles upstairs to the room to drop his pack on the floor. Locking the door behind him, he marches down the stairs again and makes for the door when Niathir calls out to him. Swiftly, he turns back to stand in front of the man, who shrinks back at the sight of him but still holds his gaze. “When you ride out, stop at the guardhouse and find a captain, or an officer. Tell them that Captain Selcran has loaned you Greywind for however long you need him, and you want him tacked up and brought to you on the double.” 

“I’ve got my own horse, Niathir. Why would I need yours?” 

“You’ll get to Toraz faster if you ride your mount for a few hours, then switch to a fresh horse. Your horse won’t be nearly as tired, as well.”

It’s a sound offer, and Geralt nods his thanks before striding out to the stable to tack up Roach. Normally, she’d whinny and nudge him for a treat in protest of having to be ridden again so soon, but this time she seems to sense his mood and stands quietly as he tightens her girth and slides the bridle over her head. 

Soon they’re trotting up to the guard’s barracks next to the main gate. Luckily, a man wearing the uniform of a captain walks by just then, and Geralt turns Roach so her body blocks the man’s path. “I have a message from Captain Selcran. Greywind is to be tacked up and saddled for me as quickly as possible, and brought to me.”

The man hesitates for a second, confusion written across his features, but then Geralt growls and the man scrambles back into the main complex. Five minutes later, a sturdy-looking dapple grey gelding is led out of the entrance and his lead rope handed to Geralt. A minute later, the witcher and his two horses were vanishing around the curve of the city walls, heading northwest for Toraz.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt rides hard through the night, switching between Roach and Greywind. Niathir’s advice proves sound and he arrives at Toraz just as the sky begins to lighten in anticipation of dawn.

There, under the cover of the woods bordering the northern edge of the village, he mixes up the strongest batch of specter oil he can make with the herbs he has in his pack, and coats his silver sword in it. He also fishes out the two moon dust bombs he has tucked in the bottom of his pack. Geralt has just enough alchemical ingredients and herbs to mix up a superior bomb, but it’ll require the contents of the two bombs he already has. It’s a tough choice; two bombs equal two chances to hit Serein’s specter, forcing her to become corporeal for just long enough to strike a killing blow. A single bomb means he only has one chance to strike her and make her take a material form for the rest of their battle.

Geralt’s hands feel magnitudes more steady than his head, so he decides to create the superior bomb, and hope that his aim is true when the time comes. It’s just past sunrise now, and there’s nothing else to do now except wait for midday to come, so he ties the horses’ lead ropes to a sapling, with enough slack that they can graze on the thick summer grass. His stomach is still too knotted to eat, so he sits cross legged on the ground to meditate. He realises his mistake as soon as he closes his eyes; as soon as he does, he’s filled with memories of Jaskier. 

_ Walking on the dusty road beside him and Roach. Singing a mindless tune, accompanied by his lute, that harmonised strangely well with the babbling of the stream behind their camp. Handing him a still-warm apple pastry he bought from the autumn fair, feeding another to a grateful Roach. _

They’d been growing closer and closer with every year, as if some unseen hand was slowly stitching closed the gap between them. When they’d last parted, Geralt had the feeling that what they had was sitting on untrodden ground, a nebulous place where they were still clinging to the statement that they were just friends, when in truth they were closer than lovers, despite the fact that they had never touched each other in the ways that the word implied. Geralt doesn’t often let himself think of love, mostly because his life was so devoid of it. But then Jaskier came along, and as the years passed, Geralt found himself thinking,  _ love _ , as Jaskier washed his hair free of stringy guts.  _ Love _ , when Jaskier bought an obscene amount of food at an inn and gave most of it to Geralt.  _ Love _ , when he came back from a hunt, bleeding and black-eyed, and Jaskier would unbuckle his armour and pet his arms until the last shivers bled from the muscles, singing softly all the while.

  
  


Too many moments they’ll never share again, and the tide of guilt that Geralt had grimly been holding back ever since the innkeeper’s words bursts its banks. He wasn’t there for Jaskier. What sort of witcher can’t even protect their friend from a monster? He wasn’t there for Jaskier, not when it counted. Not when Jaskier needed him most. He  _ knows _ , had the mantra drilled into him day after day by Vesimir, that he cann’t save everyone. But somehow Jaskier’s loss feels greater, more soul-shattering than any death he’s been a part - or cause- of in his life. 

Destiny knows that nothing cuts quite as sharply as lost love, but why only now she has set her dog Fate free Geralt does not know. All he knows is that Fate has been sent to pry open his chest with sharp claws so their slavering teeth can take a bite from his beating heart, as Fate is always hungry for suffering. Now his heart beats still but if Geralt could will it so he would order it to stop, but death is too sweet a punishment for him. He can think of nothing worse than the vast cold years ahead of him, filled with hollow songs of his triumph sung by bards with the harsh voices of vultures instead of the dulcet tones of a songbird.

He stays there, drowning in memories, for hours. Every moment he recalls cuts deeper, but he can’t stop. The years past hold him down, suffocate him, poison his mind with their words. _Not good enough. Not strong enough. Weak, weak, weak, to think that Jaskier would be safe without you. You should have held him tighter, but instead you let him fly free. You are alone now, as Jaskier was at the moment of his death. All because you never found the courage to tell him the truth. You loved him._ _And love draws envy sure as a dead cow draws flies._

When he finally opens his eyes, the sun is blazing high overhead. Midday, or near about. His eyes feel heavy, swollen with the tears his body produces but his mutations do not allow him to shed. Though his body moves fluidly, even after hours of kneeling, he feels oddly fragile. Like if he moves too fast something might shatter inside him and leave him lying, weak and helpless on the ground. Automatically, he does a last check of his gear- buckles tight, potions tucked into his belt, weapons in place. This done, he walks towards the fields, resolutely ignoring the slight tremor in his hands.


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Graphic descriptions of violence, temporary blindness

The fields stank of death. Pieces of the animals and people Serein had torn apart in her fury littered the golden wheat, blackening and shrivelling under the sun, infested with maggots and surrounded by halos of buzzing black flies. The wheat is tall enough that it reaches his waist, and he unsheathes his silver sword, insects swirling in clouds around his lower legs as he strides out into the grain. Inside, Geralt feels torn apart by Jaskier’s death as any of the miserable creatures here were by the specter. He wonders for a brief moment if this is his end, to meet his fate in these fields.

There’s a sudden shimmer in the air in the middle of the field, golden sparks swirling in a vortex as tall as a man. He rests the fingers of his left hand on the pouch holding the precious Moon Dust bomb, raising his silver sword into a guard position with the other. The vortex explodes, showering sparks in every direction, and in its place, floating a foot off the ground, is the ghost of a young woman. Her skin is a jaundiced yellow, mottled with grey, and unnaturally taught like it had been shrunken and then stretched back over the bone and muscle. True to Niathir’s tale, her belly juts obscenely from her emaciated frame, clad in a tattered pale saffron dress, with wreaths of brown and wilted flowers around her head and neck. She lifted her head, and her eyes flared gold like a werewolf’s as she caught sight of him.

Her mouth dropped open, revealing an obscenely long pink tongue that droops to her shriveled breasts, spotted with green patches that look like mould. Geralt stands, impassive, as she screeches and flies towards him arms outstretched. When she’s within range, he casts Yrden, aiming at the ground just in front of her. The specter sails into it, but to Geralt’s surprise, she doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn corporeal. She struggles for a moment, moving like a man bent against a heavy gale, and then the sign is behind her and he rolls to the side on instinct, dodging the bear-like talons emerging from her fingertips. Coming back up in a low guard, Geralt scans the field, spotting the wraith floating a good distance away, watching him. She tilts her head, as if gauging her new opponent, and then she attacks again.

Her blows rival an Alp’s in their quickness and he finds himself ducking and dodging more than swinging his sword, because in her incorporeal form the blows would simply pass right through her. He takes another step backwards and his foot lands on hard-packed earth instead of rustling grass- he’s reached the border of the wheat field. He retreats further, keeping his eyes on the wraith all the while. She can still see him, judging by the way she glares at him, hissing like an angry cat, but at least the soldier’s tale is true- she seems unable, or perhaps unwilling, to leave the shelter of the fields. 

Geralt takes the reprieve to reach into his potion pouch, coming up with a Tawny Owl, for stamina, Thunderbolt, for speed, strength and aggression, and Petri’s Philter, to increase the power of his signs. He downs them all, aware that it’s most likely more potions than he needs, but he’s never fought a wraith like this. He groans as the potions set to work, lighting up his bones until they feel like they’re burning, and all he wants to do is  _ kill _ , to strike and tear and rend flesh in a frenzy of unrestrained animalistic rage. Any thoughts of the toxicity of so many strong potions flee his mind, pushed away by the haze of battle-lust. He charges back into the field, sword raised, snarls ripping out of his throat, and the spectre screams back, flying at him, as possessed with the desire to fight as he is. 

They come together in a tangle of claws and metal, the wraith risking corporeality for the chance to spill his blood. Geralt parries, blocks, and manages to throw an  _ Aard  _ sign that knocks her back just enough for Geralt to unclip the bomb from his belt and toss it at her, casting Igni to ignite it as he dives out of the blast zone. To his right the bomb explodes with a sound like thunder that mingles with the wraith’s shriek of pain; Geralt must have hit her. He rolls to his feet, keeping his sword in a low guard across his body as he waits for the smoke to clear. The wraith evidently has no such qualms, bursting through the haze in a frenzy, howling and gibbering in fury.

She raises her arm, a ball of glowing golden light forming in her palm, and Geralt moves in, cutting from high to low in an attempt to sever her arm. The wraith dances backward, out of his reach, and then throws the light-globe at him at him in a single concentrated ray, like the sun filtered through a magnifying glass. The beam singes his armour as he rolls out of the way. He already knew that he was dealing with a different type of wraith, something that he had never read about in any bestiary or heard a tale of. The spectre he is facing is stronger, faster and more powerful than any he had fought before, even the so-called Midday Bride, and he’s suddenly glad for all the potions he took, even though the comedown is certain to be horrific.

He attacks again and again, propelled by the potions searing through his muscles, turning his mind to bloodshed. The wraith is quicksilver-fast, even corporeal, and neither her blood- nor battle- lust fades even as the sun sinks lower in the sky. Geralt’s armour is smoking in several patches, charred to ash, and a patch of his hair has been reduced to stinking black strands. Despite the swiftness and skill with which he wields his sword he can barely feel his fingers, and every heartbeat, human-fast, sounds like a drumbeat in his ears. He’s panting, the combination of exertion, heavy armour and dehydration under the baking summer sun taking its toll. Any human would have passed out from sunstroke by now, but Geralt only feels slightly dizzy, enough that his aim is off by fractions. He can hear Vesemir’s phantom voice in his head yell at him to ‘ _ Keep your damn sword straight, boy! _ ’. 

Rallying himself, he draws up his sword and charges in, gambling on speed and surprise to give him the advantage. It works, but his blade only scores her chest before she slides sideways, his blade slipping uselessly between her torso and arm, and then her bony fingers around his throat. Her grip is impossibly strong, within a hair's breadth of crushing his windpipe into mush, and her foul reek of the grave and rotting flowers filling his nostrils. This close, he can see the severed ends of exposed tendons and nerves and the white gleam of bone amongst the ribbons of muscle trailing off her forearms. Her hands pull his head up, forcing him to look her in the eye, and he finds himself suddenly paralysed, as if by a Fiend’s third eye, his body a puppet with no master holding the strings.

There’s a golden glow building in her eyes, brighter and brighter, eclipsing her iris and sclera until the wraith appears to have two suns staring out from her eye sockets, and still Geralt can’t move, can’t blink. He’s enraptured by that terrible burning gaze, and he wonders, distantly, if this was how Jaskier felt in his final moments, trapped by the wraith’s hypnotic fiery stare as her fingers squeezed the life out of him.

_ Jaskier. _

The thought of the bard breaks the paralysis, but even still his arm feels like a lead pipe dragging through tar, the movement of lifting his arm and preparing to swing taking far too long. The wraith’s eyes flare, furnace-hot and blinding, and Geralt’s vision flashes white before slowly fading into blackness. His eyeballs feel like they’ve been scooped out, dipped in molten metal, and then returned to their sockets, and he can’t draw in even a gasp of air, but the pain gives him something tangible to hold on to, a point to focus on. His mouth opens in a soundless scream as he desperately stabs his sword up, driving the blade up into where he assumes the wraith’s heart to be with all the strength he can muster.

Geralt’s blade meets little resistance as it punctures through the spectre’s desiccated skin and muscle, and there’s a horrible ululating cry and a burst of heat like a bomb exploding in front of him. The grip on his neck dissipates, and what feels like hot ashes rain down on his exposed face and hands as he sinks to his knees. He pants for breath, patches and flashing of colour appearing in his vision, strange shapes that he couldn’t even begin to describe. Vesemir’s words ring in his head again.

_ A blind Witcher is a dead Witcher. _

He can’t be blind. His vision will recover, he's just got to put his faith in his advanced healing abilities. Despite this reasoning he can’t help falling into a spiral of negative thoughts, of what he would do if his vision never comes back.

But gradually he detects a lightening at the edges of his vision, barely perceptible at first, but then it grows larger and larger until the colour slowly filters back into his vision, the yellow of the field and the blue of the sky blurry and smudged, as if viewed through an oily glass. Geralt shakes his head, trying to clear his vision, but the movement only brings on a wave of dizziness, his vision still remaining fuzzy.

He reaches down into his belt pouch, intending to grab the vials of Swallow and White Honey stored there, but instead his fingers touch broken glass and liquid. A few more exploratory touches reveal that all the potions inside have broken, smashed during the course of his fight with the wraith. The only healing potions he has, and they’re gone. He’d run out of White Gull three days ago, and he had been intending to stock up on more in Cintra. Now he’s stuck here, miles from anywhere, and his blood feels  _ itchy  _ inside his body, burning with the toxic aftereffects of the potions, irritating his muscles from inside, and leaving him unable to brew anything to ease his pain.


	5. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Geralt suffers from the aftereffects of overdosing on potions, including seizures, dizziness, weakness, blackouts

Grimly, he brings himself up onto one knee, then hauls himself to his feet. Black spots dance across his vision, but he steps forward anyway, sword hanging limply from his fingers, heading towards the village and away from the scorched black spot where the wraith died. Curious faces peer at him from behind windows and doorways, but he pays them no mind as he staggers past the village, finally reaching the copse of trees where the horses are tied.

Roach watches him placidly as he pulls his pack out from the hollow he’s stashed it in, digging through the herbs and assorted objects until he finds his bag of potions. His hands are shaking as he pulls open the drawstring tie, fumbling through the potions inside in the hope that there’s a vial of White Honey or Swallow he’d forgotten in there. Luck seems to be on his side, because at the very bottom he discovers a vial of translucent liquid.  _ White Honey _ . He pulls out the cork, raising the bottle to his lips and downing it in one shot. The aftertaste is foul, bitter and grassy, not at all like the faint sweetness of White Honey, and his stomach drops as he wonders if he brewed the potion wrong. 

Moments after that, he realises his mistake. He knows that taste- it’s Maribor Forest.  _ Damn his blurry vision to hell.  _ There’s no more time to regret his actions as the potion takes effect, sending adrenaline surging through his body. His heart leaps in his chest like a living thing, beating double-time. Unbidden, his pupils expand to their fullest extent, exposing his still-sensitive eyes to the rays of the setting sun. It  _ burns _ and he squeezes his eyes shut against the assault. He feels exhausted and wrung out from the fight, but now a terrible sense of restlessness grips him, leaving him caught in limbo, torn between feeling like if he takes even one more step his bones might crumble and collapse under his weight and wanting to  _ run,  _ to fight and hunt until he’s worked off the energy buzzing beneath his skin.

He topples forwards, his body making the decision for him, and Geralt stretches out his hands to cushion his fall. The impact sends shockwaves of pain down his arms, burns he’d sustained from the wraith’s attacks making themselves known, but he barely feels the pain as he sprawls on the ground, shivering like a man who spent too much time in the snow. 

He’s bloody and hurting, shaking from the toxic aftereffects of too many strong potions, but Jaskier isn’t there to mindlessly chatter in his ear, and salve and bandage his wounds, and stroke his shoulders and arms until the shudders subside and the toxins start to leach from his muscles and veins. Jaskier isn’t going to do any of that, ever again, because he’s  _ dead _ , and that hurts more than any wound Geralt has ever, and will ever, receive. He’s raw and on edge, breathing so fast that he’s almost hyperventilating, flayed to twitching nerves and shying at shadows.

He knows that he should rest, wait till at least some of the poison purges from his body, but he can’t. He struggles to his feet, grabbing the horses’ gear and beginning to tack them up. He can barely see and his fingers feel like they belong to someone else, fumblingly uselessly against buckles and leather. All the while, he blinks in and out of consciousness, his vision fading to black for a few moments and before he’s standing next to the horses again, swaying slightly, feeling like he’s going to collapse. It takes more tries than he cares to admit, plus a death grip on Roach’s mane, but he manages to scramble aboard her back, picking up Greywind’s reins and guiding them out of the woods and onto the road towards Cintra.

He keeps drifting in and out of awareness as he rides, slumped forward in the saddle. He can’t sleep, but it the moments between the fits, he watches the trees go by mindlessly, not feeling anything, and then he’s aware that he’s shaking and his mouth is bone dry and each step Roach takes make his head throb with pain, and then he’s just a passenger in his own body again.

When he floats back into awareness, some time later, Roach is blowing hard underneath him, her pace slowed to a walk. His muscles feel like they’ve been replaced by wet rags, and he ends up more sliding off her than dismounting so he can switch to Greywind. As soon as both of his feet touch the ground he collapses, his legs refusing to hold his weight. By some miracle, he lands on his back instead of face down in the dirt of the road. Trying to raise his arm produces little more than a twitch in his fingers, and he slumps on the ground, unable to do anything except stare up at the sky and its countless stars, glittering fiercely overhead. 

The chorus of insects rises and falls, punctuated with an occasional snort or stamped hoof from the horses, and eventually his limbs feel less like logs attached to his body, and he manages to roll over, and then push himself up onto his hands and knees, slowly, like an injured beetle, he crawls over to Greywind, who mercifully stands still as he grabs the stirrup and a strap and uses it to haul himself upright, and then into the saddle. He takes Roach’s reins, and urges Greywind into a canter, sagging forward onto his neck, barely aware that he's keeping the horses on the right road.

**Author's Note:**

> I am a simple creecher…. I say: Thanks for reading. Mayhaps you could leave a token of your appreciation below?


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